Weeks of Memories
By Tidia, January 2006
Thanks to Mog and Ridley C. James
Dean’s eyelids felt heavy, laden with
weariness. But the quietness in the room made him wonder. He opened his
eyes and stretched, trying to bring himself to immediate alertness. His
brother, Sam, was hunched over the desk, with the glow of the laptop
illuminating his features. The rustling of the sheets and Dean’s
attempt to place one foot on the ground, alerted his brother.
“Hey, hey, you were out of it for
awhile. . .” The younger Winchester got up and placed a hand on his
older brother’s chest. “Don’t get up too fast.”
Dean smiled, and swatted the hand
away. He moved himself to a seated position on the bed, feet on the
floor. The movement brought with it tiredness and a stab of pain in his
shoulder. “How long?”
Sam went back to his chair, shaking
his head at his brother’s stubbornness. “Three days,”
“What?” Dean snapped his head up.
“What the hell?”
“You didn’t want to go to the
hospital, and that bolt I removed was covered with rust so of course
you got an infection. . .” Sam studied his brother again.
Dean found it unnerving. “What?”
“Do you feel like you have a fever,
or anything? I used the antibiotics, but . . .”
“I’m fine.” Dean noted the glass of
water on the nightstand. He drank it tepid liquid, holding the cool
glass between his hands even after he had finished it. “Remind me never
to go into a tool shed with a poltergeist with has a thing for
Sam thought about it for a moment.
"Jesus was a carpenter."
The older Winchester laughed. "Yeah,
and Moses was a sheep herder - should I stay away from ghosts with
sheep?” Dean scratched the stubble on his chin. “Puts a whole new spin
on Mary had a Little Lamb."
Sam noticed his brother was not
rushing to charge the day. “You know we can take a break.” He closed
his laptop. “Not hunting for a couple a days wouldn’t be a bad thing –
it isn’t like we’re on a time schedule.”
The older Winchester brother stood
up, placing a hand on the nightstand for assistance. “I’ll be ready in
thirty minutes.” He headed for the shower with a slow but determined
“What was I thinking?” Sam replied.
“The hunt is all you know.”
Dean didn’t acknowledge the
accusation; just shut the door to the bathroom. He didn’t have the
energy to tell his brother he was wrong. Instead he turned the shower
on and waited for the mirror to fog.
Dean stayed under the hot shower,
tolerating the tendrils of heat in order to wash away vestiges of
soreness in his body. He closed his eyes, and dropped his neck forward
so that the water would work its way into his neck and shoulders. He
wished he could tell his brother of the time he decided to leave the
hunt. Six weeks of living that ‘something different’ before his father
found him, and he took up the mantle once more.
It wasn’t a special place, just some
town in the middle of nowhere with one main street running through it.
But, it was special to him-anyplace where an hour of sitting at Molly’s
Diner led him to the best apple pie and a job. The Impala was his
résumé and Tom was looking for a mechanic.
Tom, in his overalls, had wandered
into Molly’s and asked who owned the car out front. Over a cup of
coffee, and Dean’s second helping of pie, the garage owner told him
about his situation. “No telling when Vic’s coming back, and if you
need a job . . .”
Molly, cleaned the plates, and placed
the check on the counter. “He’s saying he needs the help,” she added
with a wink.
“I need the work,” Dean replied, and
he found himself following Tom to the Main Street Garage. There was a
room over the garage that Dean could have for as long as he wanted. It
was better than any motel, even with its sparseness. Within a week Dean
found himself becoming comfortable in his new surroundings. He found a
picture at the pharmacy of Vitruvian Man and bought it, tacking it up
in his room.
After three weeks, Dean began to
believe in the possibilities. He could call Sam, maybe go to school,
settle down. . .have a future. Saturday nights were spent at Collie’s
Tavern, hanging out with the people his own age – the locals. And he
was one of them. There were no monsters, guns, knives or violence in
this Dean Winchester’s life.
He went quietly when his father found
him. He sensed when John Winchester hit the town limits. He finished
working on the brakes on Joe’s Jeep Cherokee, topping off the
windshield fluid and water. He put the tools away meticulously, wiping
some of the grease off with a rag. In five minutes, his stuff was
packed into his duffle bag, except for the poster. He wouldn’t be
needing it. It wouldn’t fit in this Dean Winchester’s life. He looked
out the window, and his father was waiting outside. He went down the
wooden steps with trepidation. It was lunch time, and Tom was cooking
chili. It was chili on Wednesdays.
“Tom, I’m sorry. It’s time for me to
leave.” He kept his head low, looking at his duffle bag, studying the
Tom shut the flame on the propane
stove, wiping his hands on his mechanic’s overalls. “Is the law after
“No sir, just it’s time. But, I
appreciate all you’ve done for me.” Dean studied the little kitchen,
with its two mismatching chairs and manmade tables. He would miss the
“You’re a hard worker, Dean.” Tom
placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You come back when you can.
There’s always a place for you here.”
The young man looked out the window
at his father, knowing John Winchester would disapprove of his display
of emotions. Dean dropped his bag and hugged Tom. The older man was
taken aback, but returned the embrace. “You take care of yourself.”
Dean left with a curt nod, back into
the hunt, into the life he could never leave.
The knocking on the door brought him
back from his reverie. He shut off the water.
“The car is all packed up.”
“Be out in a minute,” he yelled back.
It was time for the hunt.
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